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SUGAR MAPLE 



AND 



OTHER POEMS 



BY 



CHARLES SHELDON FRENCH, 



ILLUSTRATED. 



WITH A FACSIMILE LETTER 



JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 



SECOND EDITION. 



HARTFORD, CONN.: 

C. Sheldon French, Publisher, 

44 Woodbridge Street. 



Prkss OF THE IIAHTI-OIU) I'UINTING CdMl'ANY, 

(KI.IHU UEER's sons,) 

16 State Street, Hartford, Conn., 
1899. 

O 




44259 



Copj-right, 1892 and iSgg 

by 

Charles Sheldon French. 



The Berkshire Hills views are from photos by C. L. Mulette, Pittsfield, Mass. 



The views of " Mount Tom in Winter " and of the " Connecticut River from 

Mountain Park," are published by courtesy of the 

Holyoke Street Railway Company. 



TWO COPIES RECEIVED. 




•ecoNH COPY, 






POEMS. 



We Have Need of Olr Flag, 

For Peace, .... 

"For Humamtv's Sake," 

Witch Hazel, . . . , . 

Welcome to the Bell, . 

In HuMiLnv, .... 

The Farmers and Theu^ (iralx 

To Poetry, .... 

Oh Irelam>, Sweet Ireland!. 

Suoar Mai'le, .... 

On Mount Tom, 

Hymn eor Columbus Day, 

Lady's Tresses, 

Lines to a Centenarian, 

In the Piiii.iittnes, . 

From the Philiittne Point ok View, 

The Giant and the Riyer, 

Mount Tom and the Connecticut Riv 

On the Site of Trinity College, 

Hymn for Harvest Sunday, . 

French's Hill, .... 

The Tories' Cave, Lenox, Mass., 

The Wood Thrush, . 

To a Friend, .... 

Ashmere, 

Trust, 

Sunday Mokninc; in June, 
Lines in an Aliu m, . 



Page. 
9 

lO 

13 
17 
iS 
21 
22 

25 
26 

33 
So 

83 
84 
85 
86 
Sg 
90 
93 
94 
97 
98 

lOI 

103 
104 
105 
106 
107 
loS 



ILLUSTRATIONS. 



Connecticut State Capitol, Hartford, 
City Hall, Holyoke, Mass., .... 
United States Arsenal, Springfield, Mass., 
Putnam Statue, Bushnell Park, Hartford, 
Peru, In the Berkshire Hills, Massachuset 
Saint Joseph's Cathedral at Hartford, 
Facsimile Letter of John G. Whittier, 
Portrait of the Author, 
Sheldon Homestead, North Reading, Mass 
Sunset Cottage, Peru, Mass., 
Hale Statue, near Athen.eum, Hartford, 
Peru Church, Berkshire Hills, Mass., 
Ford Homestead, Peru, .... 
Connecticut River, above Holyoke, 

The Aery, Peru, 

The Fernery, Peru, .... 

Mount Tom in Winter, .... 
The Puritan; Chapin Memorial, Springfiei 
The Holyoke Dam, .... 

Trinity College, Hartford, . 
French's Hii.l, Peru, Mass., . 



Page. 
Frontispiece. 



ts. 



n, 



II 

I£ 

19 
23 
29, 30 
31 
39 
43 
49 
57 
6i 
67 
71 
77 
81 

87 
91 
95 
99 




"O'ER THE MART AND THE HALL." HOLYOKE CITY HALL. 

Photo by E. M. Bolton, Holyoke, Mass. 



WE HAVE NEED OF OUR FLAG, 

These hum lilt- lines are respectfull}- dedicated to Winfield Scott Schley, 
Rear Admiral U. vS. Navy, with regrets that the author cannot more 
worthily express his admiration for that gnllant defender of the flag than 
by this inscription. 



(These lines were suggested by the following incident. A certain 
New England town had no flag suitable for use on patriotic occasions, 
and when the gift of a flag was offered, objection was made that the 
money for its purchase had better be given toward repairing the old 
town hall.) 



Of what use i.s the ring- on the finger that tells 

Of a day, glad and bright, in the years that are fled, 

And which wakens anew all the sweet wedding-bells 
Whose mtisic shall last till life's journey is sped? 

Of what use in the sky is that beautiful bow 

Smiling brightly upon us from dark clouds of rain? 

At the sight of its man3'-hued archway we know 
That the promise of God is renewed once again. 



Of what use is our banner, the "red, white and blue," 
Which unfolds like a flower on the patriot's grave? 

A symbol it is of the good and the true 

Which the life-blood of thousands was poured out to save. 

On how many red fields, with that emblem in view, 

Have our brave soldiers fought for the blessings it holds! 

On how many a deck o'er the fathomless blue 
Have our sailors invincible bled 'neath its folds! 

We have need of our flag! Let it float ever^-where. 

O'er the mart and the hall, o'er the school and the home; 

Let it bathe its bright wing in the ambient air. 

And ma}^ God bless and shield it through ages to come! 



FOR PEACE. 

May all earth's arsenals yet be 
Changed to museums vast, 

Where wondering multitudes shall see 
War's murderous engines past. 

But till the angel Peace is sent 
The whole wide world around, 

God grant our nation's armament 
For right be ever found. 




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^^FOR HUMANITY'S SAKE/' 

For humanity's sake and the love of God, 
In the name of unnumbered slain, 

The starved and butchered on Cuba's sod, 
Drive out the hosts of vSpain! 

For humanity's sake let the ships be manned 
And the "flag of the free" unfurled, 

And let this great republic stand. 
If need be, against the world. 

For humanity's sake, although war is a curse. 
Leave the anvil and plow to-day; 

The starving of innocent babes is worse 
Than death in the bloody fray. 

For humanitj^'s sake! and what shall be said 
Of the sunken war-ship "]\Iaine," 

With her fourth of a thousand heroes dead 
Through the treachery of Spain. 



For humanity's sake! Our Master's Word 

Forever and aye is sure, 
"I came not to send peace but a sword;" 

No peace till the world is pure. 

For humanity's sake ; Could the statues speak, 

Our bronzes of Putnam and Hale, 
They would say, "Let the strong protect the weak; 

The right shall at last prevail." 

For humanity's sake, in its snug retreat 

In that simny, far-distant isle. 
Our Dewey demolished the Spanish fleet 

And the whole world watched the while. 

For humanity's sake Cervera's fleet 

On that famous morn in July 
Was whelmed with ruin, sudden, complete. 

By the ships of Sampson and Schley. 




14 




PUTNAM STATUE IN BUSHNELL PARK, HARTFORD. 
Photo by Nyser, Hartford. 



WITCH-HAZEL, 

(From a Boston and Albany car-window in December.) 
By Mrs. Sus.\n P. Fremch. 

What spirit of the solitude 

Has touched thy soul in loving- mood 

And set its joy-bells ringing-? 
Ere yet the alder sheds its gold, 
Or downy willows dare unfold, 

Thy fairy cups are swinging. 

'Tis nought to smile in sunny days. 
When all around lie pleasant ways 

Like spreading beds of heather; 
I Avould that from thy secret heart 
Thou'dst teach that rare diviner's art, 

To bloom in adverse weather. 

Ring, wintry bells of green and gold, 
Till far across the wintry wold 

Like some knight errant drummer, 
Ye herald in the warm springtide 
And all its flood-gates open wide 

To usher in the summer! 

17 



WELCOME TO THE BELL. 

By Mrs. Susan P. French. 



This bell was given by the ladies of the Crane family, 
Dalton, foi- the new church on Peru Hill, Massachusetts, re- 
placing the one destroyed by fire. 



READ AT THE PRIVATE DEDICATION SERVICE, FEB. l6, 1896. 

Ring a glad peal this happy day; 
Proclaim both near and far, 
The glory of the Lord our God, 
Whose all earth's temples are. 

Ring out o'er every vale and hill, 
A song of glad accord. 
To welcome to the house of prayer, 
The ransomed of the Lord. 

Ring, ring the happy children in. 
As, with their songs of praise. 
They bring unto the Lord of Hosts 
The beauty of their days. 

Ring for our sires; those heroes brave 
With hearts so strong and free, 
Who first upon this hilltop built. 
For God and Liberty. 




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Ring', in a glad triumphant strain, 

Those spirits freed from clay, 

'Tween whom and ns the veil's so thin, 

We almost see to-day 

The iniseen host come fioating- in 

To hear us while we pray. 

Toll out from every stricken home, 
Where we our treasures weep, 
This tender, pitying- refrain, 
"He gives his loved ones sleep." 



IN HUMILITY. 

Just as truly does the daisy 

Show the Father's forming hand 

As the tree which towers above it. 
Stately elm or maple grand. 

Just as truly may the lowly 

Show the gentle Saviour's grace 

As the saints whose pathways lead them 
To the most exalted place. 



THE FARMERS AND THEIR GRAIN. 

Two neig'hborino- farmers started 
At the dawn of an autumn day 

With their loads of grain for grinding' 
To the mill long miles away. 

To both 'twas a pleasant journey 

For the road to both was new, 
Till they reached a fork in the highway 

With no "guide-post" in view. 

And one said "'Turn to the left hand," 
And one said "Turn to the right!" 

Till the journey begun in friendship 
Had almost ended in fight. 

Then each took his lonely journey 

Led on by his own sweet will 
Till they caine, almost together, 

Where both roads met, at the mill. 




SAINT JOSEPH'S CATHEDRAL AT HARTFORD. 
Photo by Harney. 



And never a word was asked them 

By the miller old and gray 
Of the way they had journeyed, only 

"Do you bring" good grain to-day?" 

And the question will not be asked us 
When we reach our heavenly home 

If we came through the "Church of England, 
Or came through the "Church of Rome." 



TO POETRY. 

Thy rule is gentle, Poesy, 

And 3'et 'tis slavery still, 
And vainly struggling to be free 
And wrest my captive soul from thee, 

I wear thy fetters ill. 

I would thy silken cords unbind, 

I dream that I am free; 
Yet wake, my restless soul to find. 
With threefold stronger cords entwined, 

A captive still to thee. 

25 



OH IRELAND, SWEET IRELAND! 

DEDICATED, IJV I'ERMISSIOiV, TO REV. DANIEL F. CRONIN, OF 
HINSDALE, MASS. 

Oh Ireland, sweet Ireland! 

God bless the Emerald Isle! 
Where'er Hibernia's dwellings stand 

Bestow Thy loving" smile. 

Throughout the wide world everywhere 

Where Erin's children roam, 
From every heart ascends a prayer 

For our forefathers' home. 

God bless the land where Thomas Moore, 

His sweet home-ballads sang, 
And where from bog to sounding shore, 

O'Connell's speeches rang. 

Oh Father! From Thy bounteous hand 

The gifts most dear to man 
Pour out upon the goodly land 

Of Emmett and Grattan ! 

Oh Ireland, Sweet Ireland! 

God bless the Emerald Isle! 
Where'er Hibernia's dwellings stand 

Bestow Thy loving smile. 

26 



TO 

MY MOTHER, 

These htinible lines descriptive of happy 

farm-life in our old home, arc most 

affectionately dedicated 

-by- 

THE AUTHOR. 






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Danvers, Mass., 

loth Mo. 5, 1883. 
C. S. FRENCH, 

Peru, Mass., 

Dear Friend : 

I have read with pleasure the manuscript of "The Sugar Makers." 

If it is not artistically perfect, and if it gives evidence of a somewhat 

unaccustomed writer it has much metrical felicity and descriptive power; 

It has the flavor of the woods and hills ; it recalls the farm-life of New 

England with its happy mingling of thrift and amusement. Its theme 

has, I believe, never been sung before. If published I think it would 

find many gratified readers of its simple and home-taught idylic verse. 

Thy friend, 

John G. Whittier. 



NOTE. 
The title "The Sugar Makers," was later exchanged for the name 
of the tree "Sugar Maple," Acer sacchariniim, which is really the 
foundation of the poem. 

30 




CHARLES SHELDON FRENCH. 



SUGAR MAPLE. 

PART I. 

Our chamber-windows, looking" toward the east, 
To vision spread an ever-changing feast ; 
From thence we watched upon the distant blue 
The golden bud, each morning fresh and new, 
Which spread its petals, bright as glowing flame, 
In changing shapes and colors ne'er the same 
Till Night forsook her star-bespangled way 
And morn's sweet bud unfolded into day. 
What dreams were ours in that enchanted room ! 
Our spirits walked in Eden's early bloom; 
No beauty lay beyond our childish grasp, 
No prize too high for our young hands to clasp; 
Ours were the mines of California's gold 
And ours the Orient's riches all untold; 
Each emerald isle in ocean's lap that lay 
Released its wealth to fancy's powerful sway. 

On every side broad belts of sturdy trees 
Waved their defiance to the mountain breeze; 
All summer-clad the firs and spruces stood. 
Yet naked-limbed the beech and maple wood. 

33 



Down to the vale a narrow pathway led 
And there, beneath the shelter of a shed, 
In winter time the herd of stock we took 
And gave them water from the meadow brook. 
With joyful hands along the path we raise 
Bulwarks of snow; The knights of feudal days 
Were not more proud of their embattled towers 
Than we of those snow-fortresses of ours. 
Behind their walls snow-balls were piled in rows 
To hurl upon imaginary foes, 

And wooden swords, our boyish hands had hewn. 
Upon their floors in rude arra}^ were strewn. 



Along that path we oftentimes had sped 
And drawn our sister on the steel-shod sled; 
No Russian noble felt a keener pride, 
The empire's fairest princess at his side 
As 'mid the pines his rapid courser flew. 
Than we as thus our eentle charo-e we drew. 



One early morn our father's voice awoke 

Our far-off dreams, and thus to us he spoke; 

"My boys, arise! Beneath so warm a sun 

The maple juices will begin to run; 

A gleam of day upon the east appears, 

Make haste and yoke the speckled Hereford steers." 

34 



For many days our longing hearts had yearned 
For such good news, and now our spirits burned 
With sudden joy, we leaped forth from our beds. 
Our clothing donned, and reached the cattle-sheds. 
The lively steers, to labor all unbroke, 
Disdained to place their heads beneath the yoke. 
To fury roused the British lion stood 
And showed his valor in their noble blood. 
In vain to force obedience we tried 
And cruelly the stinging lash applied; 
Embodiments of fear and rage they stood, 
Rebellious servants, whipped but unsubdued. 
Our father came, and soon the frightened steers 
In milder treatment quite forgot their fears, 
Until at length his gentle means attained 
The end our violence had never gained. 



The calm-eyed oxen, gentle beasts and true. 
Were placed ahead the wild steers to subdue ; 
So trained were they their driver's voice to hear 
And learn his purposes with willing ear. 
That he alone behind the plow could stand 
And write his name in furrows on the land. 
For those dumb brutes a love we used to hold 
And oft the actions singular we told 
That they had done, which almost showed a mind 
And reasoning akin to humankind. 

35 



Diverse in nature, 'twas a study rare 

To watch the habits of that bovine pair. 

The fur of one was colored cherry red; 

His massive frame, with k)rdly neck and head. 

Refused no task ; his broad breast to the yoke 

He firmly pressed oft till the harness broke. 

His mate, gray-coated and of slender frame. 

Who afterward consumption's prey became. 

Shrank from the yoke as though he fain would ask 

Deliverance from the imequal ta.sk. 

To Red belonged a keen, observing eye. 

Lighted by fires of restless energy; 

Not such the gaze of his unruffled mate 

Whose every act was studied and sedate. 



But now upon expectant ears there fell 
The welcome music of the breakfast-bell. 
We hastened to the kitchen's clean domain, 
That fragrant spot beneath our mother's reign; 
In her strong charge the arsenal where lay 
The stores which kept the wolf of want away. 
And yet she told, it seems now like a dream, 
Of night-attacks upon the sweets and cream ; 
No foes without, the robbers could have been, 
And could it be that traitors dwelt within? 
We might have charged the spirits or their ilk. 



But why need they such bowls of bread and milk? 

And who'd suspect a disembodied soul 

Of such strange fondness for the sugar-bowl? 

Be that as't may, the rogues were dressed in white, 

And did their deeds unaided by a light. 



The wide-spread table, neatly clad in white, 

Asmoke with viands met our hungry sight; 

The healthful tubers, natives of Peru, 

Which oin- rich soil in great abundance grew, 

'Neath pink-tinged skins the steaming Early Rose 

Their mines of mealy nutriment disclose. 

Our humble table could at least command 

The sweet-fleshed fish from banks of Newfoundland ; 

In fragments cooked in fresh, delicious cream. 

Such fare to us did food ambrosial seem. 

Lord! speed the day when every earthly home 

Shall own the source from whence its blessings come. 

When each home-circle everywhere shall raise 

To Thee the voice of grateful prayer and praise. 

Both young and old were seated 'round the board ; 

The strengthening drink of Java's Isle was poured 

For older lips, while younger ones partake 

Of fresh new milk their morning thirst to slake. 

While thus supplied, our busy mother bakes 

A lib'ral dish of lightest buckwheat cakes. 

Through summer time that snowy-blossomed field 

37 



Harvests of sweets to busy bees did yield. 
Was it that such a loss might be supplied 
That we the sugar-canes's rich juice applied? 
We promised oft, as that repast we ate, 
We'd soon partake of sweets more delicate. 



Our mother's youth was passed by Ipswich stream ; 
Still unforgot, she sees its waters gleam. 
Life's later storms could never quench the flame 
Which every day a brighter blaze became 
Of homeward love. The Gardener of mankind 
Knows where each plant in his vast charge to find, 
And when he sees, in some deep wooded bower, 
vSlender and pale, a rare and valued flower, 
The feeble plant to some wild hill he moves 
And seems to scourge what he most dearly loves. 
But chilly winds, that almost seem its death, 
Give to its leaves their vitalizing breath, 
And the hot rays of summer sunlight shed 
Bring back the colors that long since had fled. 
The rose that graced the vales of Middlesex 
Transplanted, now our Berkshire hills bedecks. 
Its petals glow with hues of deeper red, 
With livelier green its foliage is spread. 
The weary traveller, at close of day. 
Pursuing still his rugged toilsome way, 

38 



Has often breathed that delicate perfume 
And turned aside to view the scented bloom, 
While many a dweller on that mountain height 
Has daily drunk its fragrance with delight, 
And offered up, in gratitude, a prayer 
To Him whose loving kindness placed it there. 



No prize to us was richer meed of praise 

Than mother's stories of her early days; 

We seemed to pick the cranberries that grew 

On that broad marsh which Ipswich wanders through, 

Or go with her into the grove in search 

Of sheets of bark peeled from the snowy birch. 

And seated there within the leafy shade. 

With her in thought, the birch bark cups we made. 

Then went with her those home-made cups to fill, 

With huckleberries from the pastured hill. 



Oh, mother dear! beneath that eastern sky 

In peaceful sleep do both 3'our parents lie; 

And yet not sleep, for they have entered in 

To that blest state which knows not grief or sin. 

As they approach the glorious pearly gates 

What mighty One for their arrival waits? 

O'er that same path the feet divine have been; 

It is the Saviour bids the pilgrims in. 

41 



Have you not heard, in summer starlight clear, 

The sound of their familiar voices near! 

Do not their hands from out the glowing- west 

At eventide seem beckoning to rest? 

May our kind Father give you grace to bear 

With patient heart earth's weariness and care; 

May His kind hand, throughout life's closing day, 

vSmooth to your feet the rough and thorny way; 

And when, at last, His loving voice invites 

To rest and taste eternity's delights, 

May your last hours with peace and joy be bright 

As western skies in day's declining light! 




42 



PART SECOND. 



The frequent drifts of snow impede 
Our wood-ward journey slow; 

The patient oxen take the lead, 
Sunk breast-deep in the snow. 

The younger cattle seek in vain 
For freedom from their load, 

And with each quick successive strain 
Sink deeper in the road. 

With graceful branches plumed with snow 
Droops low the balsam fir; 

From its protecting limbs below 
We hear the partridge whirr. 

Beneath the alder's leafless boughs 
The rabbits' tracks we see, 

And where was held a night's carouse 
Around that hemlock tree. 

45 



Poor creatures! pretty, still and shy, 
Small parts in Nature's plan. 

And 5xt their blood the snow must dj^e 
To furnish sport for man. 



Too wintry yet for song of bird, 
Except the sombre crow. 

Whose harsh discordant note is heard 
Fault-findino- with the snow. 



And bright blue jays that always cried, 

As if in mockery 
The shouting teamsters to deride. 

Their shrill command, "Gee! eee!" 



Across our path in footprints clear. 
The fox's trail is found, 

And far off in the woods we hear 
The baying of the hound. 



Poor Reynard ! Arovmd yonder hill 
A swift detour he makes. 

And 3"et the hunter's cruel skill 
Anon his gray coat takes. 

46 



Triumphal arches overhead 

The woven branches made, 

Though missed the leafy curtain spread 
In suiumer for a shade. 



A hillock in the wood's embrace 
Our father's practiced eye 

Selected for the "boiling- place" 
A lofty ash tree by. 



As Israel's race, in holy fear. 

When entering Canaan's land. 

Of unhewn stones an altar rear 
At Joshua's command. 



Our work relationship might claim 
As guided by no rule, 

Our forest altar rough we frame 
Polluted by no tool. 



The maple through the summer yields 

A most luxuriant shade. 
By no tree in the heated fields 

Is cooler shelter made. 

47 



Although its life-blood, drop by drop, 

It uncomplaining- gives, 
'Twoiild seem, though thus of life deprived, 

It yet more richly lives. 



Our father with the bit so keen 

The coarse bark pierces through, 

And drop by drop the sap is seen 
Emerging to our view. 



Whence should we that rare nectar seek 

Our thirsty lips desire? 
Not from the beech tree's shaven cheek 

Nor larch's towering spire ; 



Not from the lordly evergreen 
In courtly garments dressed, 

No sweetness courses through the vein 
Within its sombre breast; 



Not from the soft and pliant pine 
Nor brittle ashen wood : 

Not one can yield this sweetness fine 
Thoup-h frauo-ht with other good. 




7,J5. 4 NATHAN HALE, 

1755 — 1778. 




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"COULD THE STATUES SPEAK. "-SEE P.\ge 14. 
Photo by Harney. 



A swamp beyond the maples lay, 
The laurels grew between, 

Whose boughs, on many a holiday, 
We robbed of everofreen. 



Oft sought by us in summer hours 
The mossy spot we knew, 

Where, lifting pitchers to the showers. 
The Sarracenia o-rew. 



We knew where slept 'neath snowy shroud 

The purple orchis fringed, 
Its colors bright as in the cloud 

By summer sunset tinged. 



Oft at the midnight hour I've stood 
And heard the sap-drops fall, 

Throughout the lone aisles of the wood 
From the rough maples all. 



The moon, through rifts of snow-cloud white, 
vShone full and clear o'erhead. 

And shadows mixed with showers of light 
Upon the snow were spread. 

5' 



When sharp night-frosts the rising- sap 
With unseen power restrain, 

And day's succeeding warmth anew 
Unlocks the maple's vein. 



The maple sap, with life renewed, 

Each woody artery thrills, 
And soon each pail throughout the wood 

With liquid sweetness fills. 



In hogsheads drained of southern sweets 
The gathered sap is stored, 

And thence into the boiling-pans 
At intervals is poured. 



Oh father! still I see thy face 

Illumined by the light 
That gleamed upon it from the arch 

That well-remembered night. 



I hear again the anecdotes 
To eager listeners told, 

Of your adventures in the mines 
Of California's gold. 

52 



With you again, in thought, I may 
The toilsome journey take 

Upon the Atlantic's heaving breast 
And Nicaraguan lake. 



I tread again Floridian Keys, 

Where, 'mid the ocean's spray, 

You picked the sea-shells, souvenirs 
For loved ones far away. 



With you I reach the Golden Gate, 
With you the mines explore, 

And from the rich earth liberate 
The precious bits of ore. 



I see the cabin which you reared 
Beside the sandy bar. 

The rustic windows it contained, 
Each pane a pickle-jar. 



I hear your lips again recite 
The violence and crime 

Which in its early days disgraced 
That semi-tropic clime. 

53 



I see that shrewd, deceitful wretch 
Who, all one vSabbath day, 

Contemptuons of God and man, 
Fired golden ore aw^ay. 



Across the stream from where he stood 
His unproductive "claim" 

At least in one selected spot, 
Enriched with gfold became. 



To unsuspecting "prospectors" 
Upon succeeding days. 

This master of deceptive art 
His worthless land displays. 



The miner leads them to his "claim,' 
Ecpiipped with pick and spade; 

They dig upon the very spot 
Which he his target made. 



As they behold the prize desired, 
Amid spadefuls of earth, 

They purchase all his interest 
At many times its worth 

54 



Thus with our father's anecdotes 
The hours of evening sped, 

Until the chilly rain-clouds drew 
Their curtain overhead. 



In providence for such a storm, 
A shelter had been made 

Of poles reposed on beechen posts. 
With rouofh boards on them laid. 



Beneath that dripping coverlet 
The weary watchers crept, 

And each, in turn, the fire renewed 
While his companion slept. 



But morning comes ; the sky is clear 
The snow-enveloped land 

And every object, far and near, 
In icy armor stand. 



Has human architectural skill 

Such wondrous roof e'er planned 

As that which with its glitt'ring dome. 
The maple pillars spanned? 

55 



Ascend with^nie the glowing slopes 
Which lead to yonder hill, 

And let the feasts of beauty there 
Your hungry vision fill. 



Above the lesser heights which rise 
In wild profusion 'round, 

Does noble Greylock proudl}^ rear 
Its summit forest-crowned. 



Beneath us, westward, lies Ashmere, 

A lovely mountain-lake, 
Whose waters from the leaping brooks 

Unceasine tribute take. 



Their peaks against the western sky 
The Catskill ^Mountains raise; 

Monadnock, o'er New Hampshire's hills. 
Its pyramid displays. 



Like trusty sentinels that guard 
Connecticut's bright stream. 

Their tops aglow with morning light 
Mounts Tom and Holyoke gleam. 

S6 





Il^^ 



liloi I lllllii 

■ ■ ■ 



PERU CHURCH, BUILT 1807, BURNED ig 
The highest church-site in Massachusetts. 



Upraised above the Worcester hills 
O'er many a lovely home, 

Through purest atmosphere we see 
Wachusett's beauteous dome. 



See near us noble Bryant's home 
Amid the Hampshire hills! 

His name is graven on its rocks 
And murmured by its rills. 



Let us thank God that He has sent 
One man these hills among", 

Whose deep-toned voice so truthfully 
Their loveliness has sunsf. 



Oh, Bryant! In the hearts of men 
Th}" memory is secure 

So long as these, th}^ native hills. 
In majesty endure. 



But at our feet, the fairest sight 

In all this glorious view. 
Lifts high toward heaven its steeple bright 

The white church of Peru. 

59 



But on the o-lowing- mountain-top 
We may not always stay, 

For duty now w^ith urgent voice 
From pleasure calls away. 



The thickened syrup in the pans 

Is waiting' our return; 
Beneath it but the glowing brands 

Of last nieht's watch-fires burn. 



Deposited in buckets rude 

On neck-yokes hung with care, 
Out from the woodland's quiet aisles 

The syrup home we bear. 



Oh Father! when earth's night is passed 

And dawns eternal day. 
May our unfettered souls at last 

Rejoicing, bear away 



The fruitage of a Christian life 
To that most glorious home 

Where naught of bitterness or strife 
Or sorrow ever come. 

60 



PART THIRD. 



Our mother planned a sugar-feast, 
And northward, southward, west and east 
Sent invitations to each guest 
The Maple's fruit with us to taste. 



New Englanders where'er they roam. 
Bear this remembrance of their home; 
Although their vagrant feet ma}^ stray 
Across thy prairies, Iowa; 
Or where the Indian waters smile 
Around sweet Ceylon's lovely isle; 
Or where, at eve, the shadows fall 
Of China's vast defensive wall ; 
(An emblem of the stony heart 
Which held it from the world apart, 
But which, beneath the gospel's ray, 
Is warming into life to-day. ) 
Or where New Bedford's hardy race 
Pursue the whale in daring chase; 
Or where, on Gospel missions sent. 
They traverse the "Dark continent," 

63 



The bearers of a gift as free 
To Afric's sons as you and me; 
These exiles from their native soil 
Will pause amid their daily toil, 
And taste anew the jo}' that fills 
These feasts upon their native hills. 

The young man eager is to share 

His invitation with the fair, 

And fearful lest another's voice 

Invite the lady of his choice. 

The first bright moon his steps will find 

Which through dark woods and valleys 
Avind, 

Through gorges choked with snow-drifts 
deep. 

Where ice-imprisoned lakelets sleep, 

Or where the brook's dwarf waterfall, 

Impatient, beats its rocky wall. 

He sees, athwart the evening sky, 

Belated wild fowl northward fly; 

As some dark grove he passes through 

He hears the owl's gruff challenge, "Who?" 



He pauses on a rustic bridge. 
Beneath which, down a rocky ridge, 
The waters leap; yon bowl from out 
He oft has swung the speckled trout; 

64 



He needs, perhaps, a finer skill 
To win capricious girlhood's will. 

A g-rist-mill stood, long- years ago, 
Beside the brook, the bridge below; 
A mossy mill-stone only shows 
Where once its dusty walls arose. 
The waters now unhindered go 
With joyful leaps to pools below. 

Protected by a hemlock grove 
The sweet-scented arbutus throve; 
Its leaves of changeless evergreen 
Emerging from the snow were seen. 
At April's close or early May 
Does this meek vine its load display 
Of chalices of pink and white, 
To Flora's lovers a delight. 



How many pictured scenes like these 
The dreamer on the old bridge sees. 
He sees the pretty student come 
And pluck for her herbarium. 
The trailing vine whose blossoms bear 
Such fragrance through the April air; 
He sees the motley cavalcade 
Which toward the mill its journe}' made; 

6S 



The angry brook, swelled high by rain, 
A noisy bondman, grinds the grain. 
He sees the huntsmen who pm'sue 
Plump partridges the brushwood through. 



The goal of his far-wandering feet 
Is this fair farm-house, trim and neat. 
Scarce whiter is surrounding snow 
Beneath the moon's reflected glow. 



His freedom "mid the household cheer 
Shows their young guest no stranger here. 
The grandsire has his word to say 
Of counsel grave or sally gay. 
He tells how in his early life 
Himself and his most frugal wife 
Did simplest, coarsest goods prefer 
Lest they should needless debt incur. 
And Sundays to the far church sped 
Upon a rough and home-made sled, 
Esteeming such conveyance rude 
Unmatched by sleigh of ebon wood, 
Beneath whose cushions, demon-like. 
The serpent. Debt, lay coiled to strike 
Its poisonous fangs in years to come 
Heart-deep into the joys of home. 

66 



A happy hoUvSehold, loving, kind ; 
What fitter emblem can we find 
Of Heaven on earth ; each member seeks 
The other's joy; each act bespeaks 
The ceaseless love that animates 
The lives of all ; such love awaits 
No formal word, but lightest things 
Attest its deep and hidden springs. 

On Peru Hill, that festive night, 

The old church stood in snowy white. 

Our fathers built their house of prayer 

Upon a mountain-summit, where 

The water from its west roof-side 

Sought Housatonic's busy tide, 

And turned the mill-wheels which it found 

Upon its journey to the sound. 

The drops which on its east roof fell 

With countless others went to swell 

The brook which constant tribute gave 

Connecticut's sea-seeking wave. 

Return ! Oh, ancient, holy days. 

When to these courts of prayer and praise 

The steeple-bell, with accents strong, 

Called forth a happy, numerous throng 

From bleak farm-house on wind-swept 
height, 

And home late-sought by morning light. 
69 



The old brick house, just opposite, 

Is now from top to bottom lit. 

The jing-ling of the merry bells 

The earlier gaiests arrival tells; 

The bob-sled outfit we may see. 

Which loears a jolly family; 

Though used for drawing logs of late, 

'Tis loaded now with human freight. 

Strength seems to be the main idea 

Which blossoms into being here; 

We hear it in the lusty shout 

Which calls the host so quickly out; 

We see it in the stalwart plan 

On Avhich are framed both team and man ; 

'Tis felt in those impulsive grasps 

With which his neighbor's hand he clasps. 



There next arrives a cutter new 
Whose shell-like box will hold but two. 
The horse, light-limbed and delicate, 
In harness bright with silver plate. 
The silvery bells, whose tinkling light 
Scarce broke the silence of the night, 
Their lively testimony bear 
To our physician's watchful care. 
I 'specially remember one, 

70 




"The Old Brick House Just Opposite," as it Looked in the Summer of 1876. 
THE AERY, PERU, MASS. 



Our little social system's sun ; 

Unselfish almost as the light, 

His fellows' joy was his delight; 

His merry words will interweave 

With memories of that jo3'ous eve; 

Does not through such a presence shine 

An influence from the Friend divine? 

How can we doubt that such as he 

Gain happy immortality. 

With Christ his friend, he knew no fear, 

And when so quickly smitten here, 

Exultantl}' his song arose, 

For such a life most fitting close. 



In that old-fashioned fire-place, 

The ancient kitchen's quaintest grace, 

The heavy kettle now is hung 

And on the stout crane inward swung. 

Beneath, the birch wood gives its heat; 

Within it leaps the syrup sweet. 

Its surface an epitome 

Of some enraged tempestuous sea. 

Anon the dancing, yellow foam 

Up to the kettle's brim doth come. 

And, frenzied by the red-hot glow, 

It threatens all to overflow; 

73 



A bit of butter is applied 

Which makes the mutiny subside. 

The boys for deepest drifts have sought 

And freshest, purest snow have brought, 

And this is firmly pressed within 

And rounded o'er the pans of tin. 

Sage experts now the syrup try; 

With wooden ladles they apply 

The boiling liquid to the snow; 

At once the syrup's fiery glow 

Is quenched; the hardened sugar takes 

A brittle form, and glass-like, breaks. 

The grave inspectors now admit 

Tis for the daintiest palate fit. 



Our pastor, wise and temperate. 
Now sadly fails to extricate 
His molars, tardy to relax 
Their grip upon the maple wax. 
His flock enjoy his puzzled plight 
And ply with questions, left and right. 
While he, in silence, makes reply 
But through each merry laughing eye. 
I call to mind one presence there 
That graced our gatherings for prayer, 
And when disciples monthly met 
Tidings from mission lands to get, 

74 



Her section to report would be 
The distant islands of the sea. 
When other lamps were flickering low 
Hers kept its steady, chang-eless glow 
And held its strong persistent flame 
Till morning's bright revival came. 



A namesake of the greatest sage 
Whose words illumine any age, 
(And yet in one important thing 
Quite difi^erent from the Hebrew king, 
For he had never found a wife 
To share the ills and joys of life. 
Although in our society 
None showed more gallantry than he. ) 
Sits 'mid a gay and youthful throng 
Who fill with wax his whiskers long; 
He tries, but vainly, to oppose 
The work of these fair female foes. 



A youth we held in high esteem, 

W^ho filled our fancy's fondest dream 

Of manliness and cultured mind, 

Of mental power and grace combined, 

Of muscle well allied to brain 

And both submissive to the reign 

Of Christ's own spirit; one whose hand 

75 



Can hold the plow o'er stony land, 
And skilfully the mill-saw guide 
Along- the hemlock's knotty side, 
And yet whose mental prowess calls 
For praise in Williams College halls. 
Repeats to one who gladly hears. 
The story of his studious years. 



Hers is the facile pen to trace 
The lithe mosquito's saucy grace 
Back to the wayside water warm 
Which nourishes the wriggler's form. 
Hers the discerning eye to seek 
To make each tiny floweret speak 
The secret which its Maker hid 
Its inmost dark recesses 'mid. 
Oh, patient, thoughtful friend of mine! 
Of such inquiring minds as thine 
Are made those suns of intellect, 
Which to our lower sight reflect 
The brightness of the Father's eye 
Out from our scientific sky. 



And thou wert there, whose highest aim 
The honor of thy Father's name, 
Whose lips are tremulous in prayer 

76 



And eyes grown dim in Zion's care, 
Whose faltering voice, these latter days, 
On Sundays reads our hymns of praise. 
A pillar in God's temple here 
Is thy place in this earthly sphere; 
Earth's proudest king might envy thee 
Thy honor and humility. 

But now the shepherd of our flock, 
(Whose 'prisoned jaws at last unlock 
Their sweet embrace, too friendly quite,) 
Arising, bids the guests "Good Night." 

"We thank our Parent, wise and good, 
For love's rich gifts in plenitude ; 
That we have found, while gathered here, 
vSuch warmth of friendship, social cheer; 
Such seasons make life's pathway bright; 
Friends, host and hostess, all. Good Night! 




79 



ON MOUNT TOM, 

Come to Mount Tom! Life's wearisome cares 
Shall fall from your shoulders here, 

While Nature her kindliest balm prepares 
In this radiant atmosphere. 

Northeast, Wachusett glad greeting sends. 
Proud Greylock looms up northwest, 

Monadnock, north, with the storm-cloud blends, 
Far southward is Talcott's crest. 

The Paper City is at our feet. 

The City of Homes hard by; 
Many thousand square miles, with beauty replete, 

Are spread "neath a wondrous sky. 

Connecticut's silvery waters take 

Their verdantly-winding trail 
Where Smith and Amherst and Holyoke make 

Of this a collegiate vale. 

Such glorious landscapes before our eyes! 

vSuch grandeur of cloud and sod! 
Shall not our wondering souls arise 

Much nearer to Nature's God? 

80 



The Connecticut Capitol's gilded dome 
Is agleam in the southern sky; 

Wherever our wandering- glances roam 
There is beauty, afar and nigh. 



HYMN FOR COLUMBUS DAY. 

(Peru, Mass., 1892.) 

Almighty God! we praise Thy name 
Thou Father wise and kind, 

That o'er the sea Columbus came 
This great New World to find! 

We thank Thee for this nation grand 

So fair and free to day; 
As in the hollow of Thy hand 

Keep her, Oh God, we pray! 

We thank Thee for these noble hills. 
These valleys clothed with green; 

Thy presence every landscape fills, 
In all Thy love is seen. 

We thank Thee for our own fair town; 

For her our prayers shall be; 
Grant her in future years renown 

As she shall honor Thee! 



LADY^S TRESSES; 
OUR LATEST ORCHID. 

By Mrs. Susan P. French. 

Along- the rugged mountain-side 
Thick-set with granite ledges, 

Where bands of feathery clematis 
Entwine among- the hedges, 

Where bobolinks their hearts sing out 

Along the grassy plain, 
And orchids hold their fringed lips 

To drink the welcome rain, 

Where goldenrod and gentian blue 
Stand in their autumn beauty, 

Like dreams of youth and truth and love 
Beside the path of duty. 

Where larches drop their fading gold 

And hermit thrushes sing, 
A fragrance steals along the air 

Like violets of the spring; 

Like some dear friend whose faithful heart 
Keeps love through chilly weather, 

Or those with whom we trod life's way 
In early days together. 



LINES TO A CENTENARIAN. 

(Mrs. LuciNDA Sheldon Howard, of North Reading, Mass.) 

To thee, my distant, unseen friend, 
A reverent greeting- I would send; 
The honor which is ever due 
From youth to age I render you. 

So rarely does our Father give 

To man a century to live, 

We look with awe and thankfulness 

On one whom he thus deigns to bless. 

It is no chance or accident 
Which such long life to 3'ou has sent, 
For length of days is a reward 
Promised to servants of the Lord. 

May each day draw you nearer Him, 
And Heaven grow bright as earth grows dim, 
And peaceful may thy entrance be 
To joys throughout eternity. 

85 



IN THE PHILIPPINES. 



For a mess of pottage of bitter taste, 
We barter our birthright grand, 

We make of the isles a barren waste 
And leagued with oppressors stand. 



We slaughter by wholesale men as brave 

As any that history knows. 
Their sole offence that they rise to save 

Their land from its forei«-n foes. 



Our fathers fought, in the olden days. 
For the sacred rights of man, 

And side by side in the battle's blaze 
Stood the Celt and the Puritan. 



In wild delirium of greed 

The fathers' work we shame. 

And murder and robbery are decreed 
In Freedom's sacred name. 

86 




"THE PURITAN." MEMORIAL TO DEACON SAMUEL CHAPIN, SPRINGFIELD. 

Photo by Lazelle. 



FROM THE PHILIPPINE POINT OF 
VIEW. 

It was an ill-starred morning when Columbia's 
warships came, 

Like some mighty mystic giants wrapped in thun- 
der and in flame, 

When they sank our former masters and we looked 
for swift release. 

And we gave them royal welcome as we would 
the Prince of Peace ! 



For they came to give us freedom from the gal- 
ling Spanish yoke. 

But at once they forged new fetters in the place 
of those they broke; 

And the western tyrant's banner floats o'er city, 
field and bay, 

And they swear by all that's holy it forevermore 
shall stay. 



It may be that there is no God to succor the op- 
pressed. 

And that the powers on high are marching with 
the Tyrant of the West! 

But we know no middle station 'twixt a freeman 
and a slave. 

And instead of vassalage we choose a soldier's 
o'rave. 



It is quite beyond our reason, this new gospel 
from the West, 

And it brings no consolation to the heart of the 
oppressed ; 

'Tis the gospel of the robber, as he lays his power- 
ful hand 

On the ignorant and helpless, on our lives and on 
our land. 

89 



THE GIANT AND THE RIVER. 

A giant of old by the river-bank 

Lay lazily down full length ; 
He labored at times, he ate and drank, 

And nobody guessed his strength. 

He watched the waters go tumbling by 
In their hurry to reach the sea. 

And at last he pondered "Why shouldn't I 
Make the Connecticut work for me?" 

"I'll harness the monster;" he cried with jo}^ 
And they grappled at once in glee ; 

But the river threw him down like a toy 
And ran merrily on to the sea. 

But he won at length, and man}" a mill 

Now sits on the plain below. 
While homes of plenty and comfort fill 

The beautiful high plateau. 

And often I think, when the daylight dies 

And the heavy shadows fall, 
I see the gleam of the giant's eyes 

From Holyoke's city-hall. 

90 




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MOUNT TOM 
AND THE CONNECTICUT RIVER. 

The mountain looked down at the river; 

"Good neighbor, it does seem to me 
Every drop of your waves is a-quiver 

In your hurry to reach the sea. 

"Through years I'll not venture to number 
On this rocky and picturesque height, 

Undisturbed through long ages of slumber. 
Have my features been turned to the light. 

"Then stay in your endless endeavor 
For awhile let your industry cease; 

Why go on your journey forever? 

Let your waters rest calmly in peace." 

The stream, on its way to the ocean, 
One instant for answer found breath, 

"There's life in the music of motion, 
Inaction and silence are death!" 

93 



ON THE SITE OF TRINITY COLLEGE. 

In those old days of blood and fire and glory, 
Impetuous youth, he bore a traitor's brand; 

On history's page, as "Moses Dunbar, Tory," 
Bereft of stain, his name will ever stand. 



And so, I think, although not so intended. 
Whene'er my e3xs on Trinity are bent. 

Those massive walls, so grand, so richly blended, 
Became, in truth, the tory's monument. 



There was the gloomy scaffold elevated. 

There darkly stood the frowning multitudes, 

And when the drop a white soul liberated 

A white deer bounded forth from out the woods. 



It was his fearless unrestrained devotion 

To his new love, his "Church of England" dear. 

Made him espouse that power beyond the ocean 
And die in shame upon the scaffold here. 

94 



And where this martyr of the revohition 

vSaw his Hfe snufTed out as a thing- accursed 

Is it not most poetic retribution 

That thrones of students in his faith are nursed? 



HYMN FOR HARVEST SUNDAY. 

(West Worthington, Mass., i8g2.) 

Oh God of Harvest! this giad da}^ 

Our joyful songs we raise; 
In Tliy high courts accept, we pray, 

Our hmnble notes of praise. 

Our hillsides, bright with autumn's gold. 
Their harvest wealth bestow; 

Our vales, like Palestine's of old, 
With milk and honey flow. 

And richer far than golden corn 

Or maple sweetness rare. 
We thank Thee for the pleasure born 

In homes of love and prayer. 

Kind Father! lead us by the hand; 

Permit us not to roam ; 
'Till in that purer, better land 

We sing our "Harvest Home." 

97 



FRENCH'S HILL. 

vSweet spot of earth! The hurrying time hath wrought 

Small change upon thy ever-pleasant form ; 
Thy smiling cheeks and rocky brow have brought 
New beauty from each conflict with the storm. 
About thy ample feet 

As fair as Paradise, 
The beech and maple sweet 
In beauteous forests rise, 
And spruce and glossy firs lean darkly 'gainst the skies. 



Grand is thy look when wintry tempests wreathe 

Thy solemn evergreens with purest white, 
Or frosty airs o'er falling rain-drops breathe, 
And icy-armored forests greet the light; 
When each low-bending bough. 
By midnight breezes swung 
About thy noble brow. 

With jeweled lamps is hung. 
And over all the moon's pale light is flung. 



THE TORIES^ CAVE, LENOX. 

Below October Mountain, 
The Housatonic flows, 

Fed by the rain-cloud's fountain 
And by dissolving snows. 

Plunging- from heights forsaken 
Through many a leaf}- nook. 

One motmtain stream has taken 
The name of Roaring Brook. 

A cleft in Mount October, 
The foaming waters lave ; 

The yellow violets sober 

Bloom near the humble cave. 

In those old days, whose glories 
To patriots all are dear. 

Some hated, hunted tories 

Found safe seclusion here. 

In constant anguish fearing 

The dawn of each day's sun. 

In doubt lest death were nearing 
By patriot rope or gun. 



They with the wolvevS disputed 
The right to shelter here, 

While shad-trees bloomed and fruited 
And leaves grew brown and sere. 

No sound of builder's hammer 
This ancient dwelling heard ; 

The brook's incessant clamor 
Its deep recesses stirred. 

At dead of night a woman, 

The fugitives brought food, 

The only vision human 

Which broke their solitude. 

Oft did the Berkshire yeomen 
The forest search in quest 

Of their few tory foemen. 

Nor this rude shelter guessed. 

A century has humbled 

The refugees' abode ; 
Stones from the cliff have crumbled 

Beneath the mountain road, 

October Mount its glory 

O'er Housatonic shows. 
Whilst patriot and tory 

In dust, at peace, repose. 



THE WOOD THRUSH. 

The watcli-fii"e in the west is cold 
That late in gorg-eous splendor rolled 
Its chariot-wheel o'er seas of gold. 

The many-colored sunset dye, 

The rainbow hues of earth and sky 

Before the coming darkness fly. 

Yet lingers still upon the rim 
Of the horizon, cold and grim, 
A yellow light fast growing dim. 

I stand within the solemn wood, 
No breezes stir the solitude, 
The loneliness seems over-good. 

Yet clear above the gurgling rush 
Of waters through the alder brush, 
I hear the sweet voice of the thrush. 

A tiny bell, whose silver peal, 

As saddest memories o'er me steal, 

In deepest depths of soul I feel. 

103 



A sadness still, yet not despair, 

A sombre ecstasy of prayer, 

A voice that climbs Hope's shining- stair. 

Again the evening air is still. 
Save where the gently-flowing rill 
Sends through the air a dreamy thrill. 

But through the chambers of the brain, 
In hours of joy and hours of pain 
The thrush's song I hear again. 

So sweetly sad, so sadly sweet. 
Those bursts of music, wild and fleet. 
Seem songs escaped from Heaven's seat. 



TO A FRIEND. 

May God give you long life, my friend, 
And may you all its moments spend 
In serving Him; vSo shall life's end 
Be bright as sunset, when there blend 
Rich colors in the glowing west. 
Bright curtains veiling heavenly rest. 

104 



ASHMERE. 

(VVRITTKN ABOUT TWENTY-SEVEN YEARS AGO.) 

Oh, lovely lakelet! nestling- low 

Our rugged Berkshire hills between, 

Not summer's heat nor winter's snow 
Can dim the pleasure of thy scene. 

How often in the starlit night 

I've viewed thee from this rocky height. 

And e'en at midnight's lonely hour 

Have climbed to this, my broad watch-tower. 

To gaze upon thy form. 
Or watched thy ripples scud beneath 
The chilly wind's swift-sweeping breath 

Before a thunder-storm. 

Thy modest beauty and sweet grace 
Remind me of a sister's face; 
The thought within my memory stirs 
That this, thy birth -year, too is hers. 
Oh, mirror of the sky and earth! 

105 



How many men of future birth 

Shall hold the spot where I look forth, 

O'erjoyed, like me, at seeing-, 
Enchanted with thy loveliness, 
Thy mossy marge and woody dress, 
vShall all thy tinted beauty bless, 

Unconscious of my being. 



Be thy pure waters ever clear. 
Thou jewel of the hills, Ashmere! 
And may the sister of thy age 
Endure like thee the tempest's rage, 
vSubdue, like thee, surrounding strife, 
Charmed to a sweeter, gentler life. 



TRUST. 

As toiling boatmen, bending to the oar, 

See but the waves behind and not a glimpse before, 

So we see but the past, the future all is dim ; 

We place our trust in God and leave our way to Him. 

io6 



SUNDAY MORNING IN JUNE. 

[By Courtesy of the HARTFORD CouRANT.] 

The thrush has rung- her silver bell, 
The maple forest through ; 

The robins in the orchard tell 
That day begins anew. 

There floats aside the veil of mist 
The valley's face which hid 

When Night her sleeping features kissed 
Her leafy curls amid. 

The golden bud of morn that grew 

Above the eastern hills 
Unfolds till all the heavenly blue 

Its radiant petals fills. 

The Christian to his house of prayer 
The solemn church-bells call; 

How grandly on the throbbing air 
Their deep-toned voices fall ! 

107 



By every path unnumbered flowers 
Their mute thanksgiving raise, 

Uplifting through the tuneful hours 
Their voiceless hymns of praise. 



All nature in a joyful mood 

From wood and height and plain 

Seems sweetly singing "God is good' 
And man repeats the strain. 



LINES IN AN ALBUM. 

The lily of the valley decks 
The fertile plains of Middlesex; 
The sweet-scented arbutus hides 
Upon the Berkshire mountain-sides. 



vSome lives an even tenor keep 
While some are as the mountains steep; 
Though rough or smooth should be life's field 
May it some flowery sweetness yield. 

io8 



OCT Ifi 1899 



